


he was pointing at the moon

by Penthos



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penthos/pseuds/Penthos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Austria, Nixon decides, is the most beautiful place in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he was pointing at the moon

Austria, Nixon decides, is the most beautiful place in the world. He decides this at around two thirty in the morning after hours of staring at the ceiling, consumed by irrelevant thoughts, and wonders how long it's been since he last had a good nights sleep. Nixon's had his fair share of sleepless nights, but he'd blamed them mostly on negative degree temperatures and the fact that he was sleeping in a hole in the ground in the middle of a war-zone. 

So lying in a soft bed surrounded by luxury and in the middle of European summer, he feels cheated as he tosses and turns and thinks. He's thinking too much, he knows it, going over scenes he'd vowed to lock away indefinitely, but he replays them anyway as if it's all some twisted joke. It certainly _feels_ twisted, as well as unfair and awful and wrong, that he, of all people, should be here in an expensive hotel while his friends lie in shallow, hastily dug graves. He mulls over this, and plenty of other things, and not once do his thoughts touch on red hair or on calm voices or freckles on pale skin.

(A lie)

Eventually he gives up trying to sleep, kicking off the thin sheet as he stands. He thinks about doing a few rounds to check on the men, but chooses against it; he should allow them some sleep at least. Instead he wanders to the balcony door (a balcony! Who would've expected them to end up in a place like this?) and steps out into the humid air. The sky is devoid of clouds and the lake and mountains around seem to glow in the hazy moonlight. 

(How picturesque, he thinks bitterly. The moon shone like this at Bastogne, too. The Germans had certainly used that to their advantage)

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the balustrade, eyes falling to the lake and mind drifting once again. He thinks about swimming and Nixon, New Jersey, and then, (and it's as if the thought has become an inevitably nowadays) red hair. It always comes back to that. Richard Winters and his red hair that followed him from Toccoa, Georgia all the way to Austria. It occurs to him then, that all the major events he can pinpoint since signing up for the paratroopers (and even that) have been tied together by one Dick Winters. He curses himself and he curses Hitler for starting this whole damn thing and he curses Dick Winters and his stupid red hair that could rival the sun.

(He laughs into the night, bitter and hollow and thinks "If he's the sun that probably makes me the moon.")

He's in the middle of wondering how much simpler his life would be if he hadn't met Dick (but really, when has Nixon ever liked simplicity?) when a sound to his left stirs him out of his thoughts. 

"You too, huh?"

Nixon wants to laugh at the irony of it all and the fact that he doesn't even need to turn his head to instantly know who it is. (He does so anyway; when has he ever passed a chance to look at Dick Winters?). They're both dressed in their skivvies, a thin t-shirt and shorts, as anything more would be stifling. Dick is standing on his parallel balcony that only seems separated by about three feet and while Nix can't see quite where his gaze is fixed he allows himself to imagine it's on him. 

"Looks like it." He replies somewhat gruffly, nodding in agreement in want of more to say. Neither speak for a moment and Nixon's eyes take in every slight movement in his peripheral vision. 

"The bed's too soft," Nix looks up, frowning slightly, "It's too different." Dick's voice is quiet but Nix has no trouble hearing him when the only other sound is the crickets.

"I'd probably sleep better in a foxhole, to be honest."

Dick laughs and Nix wants to never forget the sound but he can't keep looking at Dick like he's the damn sun (which he's _not_ , Nix has to forcefully remind himself) so he busies himself with an almost empty bottle of Vat 69 that he seems to have left out here earlier and pretends that he's not in love with his best friend. 

"You want to come over here?" Dick says, breaking the quiet again and Nix smiles wearily at the moon because he'd like that more than anything. He should probably say no, excuse himself and go back to bed where he'll lie until the sun comes up because saying yes could lead to any number of things said and done. Everyone knows that rules don't seem to apply when the hands of the clock are creeping closer to three in the morning than in the afternoon, and that inhibitions slacken when the moon is the only source of light. He should say no but somehow that translates to, 

"Sure thing, Dick."

His feet take him almost mindlessly through his own room, out into the hall and pushing open the unlocked door into Dick's room. He could turn back at any moment but he doesn't, only stopping when he's next to Dick on the balcony. They stand there in quiet companionship and it would be peaceful if Nix's heart was beating at a normal rate. He feels drunk on moonlight (and really, when had he turned into a poet? He should leave this sort of thing to Webster) and on the mouthful of Vat 69 and on Dick Winter's presence. He wonders if he's losing his mind. 

"What is it, Lew?" He stiffens, skin prickling despite the heat, and tries a laugh but it comes out strained and false.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." 

(Another lie) 

"You can tell me, Lew. I understand how you're feeling-" Nix laughs again but it's harsh and bitter this time. 

"You understand how I'm feeling?" He repeats.

"I think I do, Lew. You feel like all the rest of us. You're tired."

"Well sure I am, I've just fought a fucking war with you, haven't I?" Dick doesn't even flinch at the curse thrown down bitterly, "I'm tired of fighting, tired of watching good men die, tired of _you_ , Dick. Standing there like you're the- the goddamn sun or the messiah or something," 

He's said too much, he's passed some unspoken boundary; he can see it in the way Dick's head tips to the side as when he's confused, in the way his eyebrows crease and his lips tighten. He carries on anyway. He's already done enough damage, what's the harm in continuing? A spiteful part of him can't wait to see the shocked look of horror on wholesome Dick Winter's face. A smaller part of him is terrified,

"-and you're always there and there's nothing I can fucking do about it and you know what, Dick? Sometimes I think I'm in love with you and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

He waits for the look of disgusted horror on his face, wonders if he'll receive a punch to the face or if Dick will just leave in silence and never speak to him again.

(He hopes for the first. It would probably be less painful.)

What he's not expecting, what he could never have foreseen in any existing universe, is for Dick's expression to soften, for his shoulders to relax and his hand, instead of breaking his jaw, to rest gently on his arm. 

"You too, huh?" He's smiling with his freckled lips that Nix can't help but notice and it takes him a moment to realise what he said. Dick kisses him on a moonlit balcony in Europe, and Austria, Lew decides, is the most beautiful place in the world.


End file.
